


A Far Far Better Thing

by fitz_y



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, F/F, F/M, Femslash, Gen, Illness, Infidelity, O’Brien’s moral ambiguity, Scheming, Season/Series 02, Snark, Thomas/O'Brien friendship, Unrequited Love, downstairs, lots of time spent smoking, not a villain just misunderstood, secret feelings, sexism and disheartening gendered expectations of the time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-08
Updated: 2012-01-08
Packaged: 2017-10-29 05:44:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/316442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fitz_y/pseuds/fitz_y
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>O’Brien meddles in the affairs of Lord and Lady Grantham, this time for their own good.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Far Far Better Thing

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Netgirl_y2k](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Netgirl_y2k/gifts).



> This takes place in the slots between the last few episodes of the second season. Perhaps the best way to characterise this is as a cross between gen and romance, or as a character study of O’Brien and her secret feelings. For my darling Netgirl_y2k, who inspires me and keeps me sane, whose writing makes me laugh and cry, and who I am so lucky to know! I am so thrilled that we are once again in the same fandom! Many thanks go to my beta of awesome, Yllenk; every writer should be so lucky as to have a beta as thoughtful, thorough, and brilliant as she is. All remaining mistakes are very much my own.

O’Brien didn’t like the way Jane, the new maid, folded the linens, corners just a touch too sloppy. She’d done her time as a housemaid herself before she had become a lady’s maid, climbing to the top with sweat and callused hands and aches throbbing across her lower back. One didn’t succeed in service with soft corners.

There were always several strands of hair loose by the ear, not combed there on purpose, but escaping from the pins and white cap that were to hold it all in place. Her voice was quiet; she kept her head down in the servant’s quarters, never spoke more than was necessary to answer a question or pass along an observation. O’Brien smelled a rat.  


:::

“She never said what her husband did for a living, did she?” She paused, sucking down a long drag of her cigarette. “But he went off and died an honourable death, of course.”

“What are you thinking?” From his perch at the wooden table, Thomas peered up while exhaling a stream of smoke into the frozen morning.

“What if there never was a husband?”

“What’s it to you?” he drawled, more of a statement than a question. “She gets the job done, hasn’t done one thing out of place.”

“That we’ve seen.” O’Brien fixed him with her sternest look. “Those are always the ones to keep your eye on. Just like Bates when he first arrived.”

Thomas shrugged, turned to look out over the dirty brick of the back yard. “She does her job, doesn’t put on any airs. Not like Bates did, a cripple acting like a trumped-up valet. She’s just a housemaid, knows her place.” He flicked the remains of his fag to the brick. “Come along, then. I’ve got to see to the reordering of the east drawing room before everyone’s up. And Her Ladyship certainly won’t dress herself before breakfast.”

Nor would O’Brien want her to. She needed to make sure she wrapped Her Ladyship in enough layers this morning. The cold of winter was seeping into the walls of the Abbey, and it wouldn’t do for Her Ladyship to freeze.  


:::

It wasn’t Jane’s sloppiness that bothered O’Brien, not really. It was unappetising, unattractive to see that kind of lazy messiness, but that wasn’t what worried O’Brien, what caught her out in a cold sweat when Jane brushed by her in the hallway, acknowledging O’Brien with an unobtrusive nod as her eyes slid down to stare at the baseboards and she tucked her hands close to her sides. It was something else she couldn’t quite put her finger on, something that niggled at the back of her mind, bitter and ugly, but vague.

:::

  
“You know what we need to do?” O’Brien tapped her unlit cigarette against the cold wood of the picnic table.

“‘Bout what?” Thomas lit his own cigarette, and leaned into her space with the match.

She sucked warmth into her lungs, knowing it was no match for the frozen numbness in her fingers. She was right tired of this rainy, icy winter lingering in Downton.

“About Jane, that’s who.”

“What’s there to do about her?” He flicked a piece of invisible lint off his suit jacket, tugged his bowler lower. “You’re not still worried about her sloppy folding, are you?”

“No, it’s not that. No, we’ve got to see the papers she filed with Hughes and Carson when she applied for the job.”

“What for?”

“To check her references, that’s what for. Follow up on her so-called husband.”

“What’s it to you?” He turned to stare at her, and she noticed how thin and dark the skin under his eyes was.

“You’ve got to help me check it out, you do.”

He sucked in a drag, hissing air between his teeth. “Why’s that? I’ve got my own affairs to look after. Who knows if I’ll even stay at Downton.”

O’Brien stood, pushing away from the table with a huff. “If that’s how you want to be. I’ll get those papers out of Carson’s desk myself.”

He reached out, his gloved hand darting to catch hers. “Now, now. Don’t be getting so touchy. You’re the one with the job to loose. I’ll be the one doing the poking around. Besides, I’ve nicked my fair share of wine from Carson’s room, haven’t I?” His dark eyes met hers and he cocked his head.

“Good, you’ll do it. When do you think you can get in there?”

“This week, maybe next.”  


:::

O’Brien smoothed her sweaty hands down the front of her dress and stared at the closed door. Her Ladyship should be resting, napping now, not ringing her up. She knocked softly.

When there was no response, she pushed through the door gently.

Lady Grantham sat at her dressing table dressed in the shift that O’Brien had left her in, peering sightlessly into the mirror, her long hair loose about her slumped shoulders.

O’Brien suspected what that angle of her shoulders meant; it was a rare sight—something no one else ever saw but her, maybe not even His Lordship. Inside her, a tight fist formed and she frowned. At least Lady Cora had O’Brien to look after her.

“My Lady, you rang?” she pitched her voice as low and gentle as she could.

Her Ladyship startled, and turned to face O’Brien, flashing her a quick half-smile—the one she used when the Dowager Countess said something she did not want to hear. “You’ve caught me daydreaming, O’Brien.” She bit the smile back into her mouth and O’Brien swallowed down all the words pressing against her lips— _You don’t have to pretend for me, My Lady. Please tell me, just tell me what it is._ —and ground her heels into the soft carpet, fighting the urge to run to her side, to pull her head to her breast, to kneel at her feet and wrap her arms around her waist.

“Were you not able to rest, My Lady?”

Her Ladyship shook her head, the thick hair at her shoulders glinting in the afternoon sunlight. She stuck her chin out. “‘I’ve decided I need to examine my wardrobe.”

“Your wardrobe, My Lady?”

“Yes. To see if I have a dress suitable for Cousin Matthew’s wedding.”

“Oh, I see.” The wedding was still months away.

“And if I don’t have something suitable, then I will have to order it made. You see, O’Brien, I don’t want to order anything. But if I have to, I will.”

O’Brien didn’t quite see, but she murmured her assent as she opened the doors to Lady Grantham’s grand closet.

“I was thinking the burgundy velvet.” She gestured toward the dress, heavy and low cut, that Her Ladyship had worn to a Christmas Ball two seasons ago. Cora had looked resplendent, her skin pale against the lush deep red of the velvet, strings of pearls entwined in her hair. “With some new trim, it would certainly be fitting.”

“No, no,” Her Ladyship laughed gently. “It must be something understated, and that dress is anything but. I am not the mother of the bride, nor should I look like I’m trying to be.” As if Lady Grantham could ever be understated, unnoticeable. She turned from where she sat in front of her mirror, her blue eyes going pleading and soft as she met O’Brien’s gaze. “Oh, I do so wish . . .” She paused, pulling herself up, sitting tall before glancing out the window and leaning on the side of table. Her words tumbled out in a rush, “I do so wish Matthew was marrying Mary, not Lavinia. It’s a horrible thing to wish, I know, because Mary just needs to be married to someone _anyone_ , and Matthew, he deserves happiness, and he seems happy with Miss Swire, doesn’t he? But I can’t help thinking, he’d be . . . they’d be such a better match together than Miss Swire and Matthew, and it’s . . .” She jerked up, and strode over to the walk-in closet, sweeping by O’Brien. “I say the stupidest things, when I’m tired.”

“It’s not stupid, ma’am, to wish your daughter to be happy,” O’Brien said softly, lifting her hand toward Lady Grantham’s back as she pulled one dress then another from the rack. She dropped her hand when Her Ladyship spun. O’Brien fought back the urge to lift a fingertip—ever so gently—to trace the fine lines framing Cora’s eyes.

“But it _is_ stupid, O’Brien. It’s stupid of my husband to keep harping on Mary’s happiness and, dear God, how his mother goes on about it. Everyone’s letting Mary sulk and draw things out with Sir Richard and that’s just not right. Mary needs to move on, not keep two different men dangling by a string. And everyone in this household is indulging her in it. She needs to grow up. And I refuse to be just another indulgent person to Mary’s whims. I refuse.”

O’Brien averted her eyes, stared at the rug under their feet. “You care for your daughters, is all.”

“But Mary’s put me through so much, so much, if only you knew, and I won’t feel sorry for her. I won’t waste time wishing she and Matthew could be together when they simply _can not_.”

O’Brien bit back the urge to ask what Mary had put her through, what had left her eyes so hollow, her skin so blanched. She wanted to lean in and run her hands up and down Cora’s arms, to draw her towards her and stroke her back and just let her rest, cradled against O’Brien’s neck and chest.

But she stood stock still, eyes fixed on the ground.

Something, something having to do with Lady Mary weighed heavily on Lady Grantham, bowed her shoulders and kept her awake. And it had for some time now, years even, O’Brien suspected. O’Brien knew the weight of secrets; once they were lashed to your heart, bound with sturdy rope of disappointment, their weight tugged your heart lower and lower in your chest day by day, until one day it would sink completely. “Sometimes you need to be tough to love someone,” she said softly. “And when you do, it makes you tough, too, on the inside. That’s what’s hurting you, My Lady.”

“Perhaps . . . I just wish Robert would see it the way I do. He’s too soft on Mary, leaves me to be the hard one. She . . . she needs direction, guidance.”

If only Cora could see what O’Brien saw, how weak His Lordship was in comparison to her, how soft he’d gone, how Lady Grantham sallied forth every day, the weight of the entire clan on her shoulders. “You’re stronger for it.” Cora was beautiful, resplendent in her strength, her endurance, like a polished diamond. She’d hardened in the past few years, since she had lost the child, since the war had come and gone, but in her rigidity, she was more gorgeous, more whole than anything O’Brien had ever seen.

“O’Brien . . . you, “ She paused, her tone light and unsure, almost as though she wanted something and was not quite sure what it was.

Heat crept up O’Brien’s neck, her heart beat a touch more swiftly. O’Brien dared not look up.

“Yes, My Lady?” Her words were a mere whisper in the close quarters of the walk-in closet.

Cora turned, putting her back to O’Brien and running her finger across a row of dresses. “O’Brien, none of these dresses will do. Will you make an appointment with my dressmaker? I’ll have something new made. Something simple, stately.”

“Perhaps in blue, My Lady?” To match your eyes. Such drivel, such horrendous drivel filled O’Brien’s head every time she looked at Lady Grantham. She swallowed, feeling it stick in place in the back of her throat.

“Yes, a soft blue would be perfect.”

Her Ladyship brushed past O’Brien, her voice once again steady. “But now I must dress for tea. I’ll wear the dress you laid out this morning.”

“Yes, My Lady.”

O’Brien moved to where the white dress hung by the door, breathed in and out against the prance of nerves in her stomach, the heat filling her chest. It was time to lock it all away, and bury the key deep down. Time for efficiency and a dispassionate eye, time to smooth fabric over Lady Grantham’s shoulders and waist, fasten the hooks and buttons, run a brush and fingers through her hair, to pin it high so to expose her elegant neck. O’Brien shut her eyes, relaxed her shoulders and breathed in and out again.

“O’Brien?”

The tumblers of the locks fell into place.

“Yes, My Lady?”

“Are you all right?” The quiet concern she heard there threatened to smash the locks.

Everything inside her tightened. “Of course, My Lady. My apologies, I’m just a bit tired myself.”

“Oh dear, O’Brien. You work so hard, always thinking of my welfare, and never of your own. I can have Anna dress me, if you’d like. You should go lie down.”

“No, no, My Lady, I wouldn’t hear of it.” Anna dress her indeed. She moved back towards her, the green-frilled cream tea dress in hand. Lady Grantham smiled, indulgently, showing the faint lines around her mouth, and reached out for O’Brien’s hand.

O’Brien backed away, evading. “Truly, My Lady, it’s nothing. Now let’s get you into this dress.”

“Well, I’ll tell Mrs. Hughes to make sure to keep her eye on you. I won’t have you fall sick on my account.” Lady Grantham’s statement was half-muffled as the light fabric slipped down her arms, over her waist, pooling below her ankles. While the sentiment was thoughtful, it was pointless; O’Brien had been sick on Her Ladyship’s account for nigh on five years now.  


:::

They settled on an indigo silk the colour of the ocean at night, making her skin glow like porcelain, with draping that flowed over her shoulder gracefully. O’Brien was in the process of unwrapping the gown when she heard a knock on Her Ladyship’s dressing room door.

The door swung open and Jane strolled in. “Oh,” she stepped back, “I’m just going to make up the bed.”

O’Brien sniffed and shook off the dress, smoothing down a few isolated wrinkles; with a thorough pressing it would be flawless. “A bit late in the day for this, isn’t it?” she asked tightly, glancing over to the clock on Her Ladyship’s dressing table.

“Well, Anna was sent down to accompany Lady Mary to the village, so I’m making up all the rooms on my own,” she spoke so quickly the words were tripping over themselves to flee her mouth.

“See that you always do Her Ladyship’s and His Lordship’s rooms first.”

“Of course. I mean, I do.” Jane ducked her head. “I did just come from His Lordship’s chambers.” She turned away to approach Lady Grantham’s rumpled bed, but not before O’Brien caught the blush lurking at the base of her neck.

O’Brien hung the indigo gown with Lady Grantham’s other dresses, sniffed again, and marched out of the room, silently filing Jane’s blush away in the cabinet of information she had been compiling since Jane had first come to Downton.  


:::

“So do you really think all this is going to happen, then?” A cloud of smoke wafted out of Thomas’s mouth as he arched his head back to rest against the stone pillar.

“All what?” O’Brien wanted to hug her arms around herself against the chill of the early spring morning. But she just hunched her shoulders and drew another deep drag from her cigarette.

He gestured to the carts lining the brick courtyard—packed with candles and fabrics for drapery and an excess of chairs, waiting to be unloaded first thing in the morning. “Mr. Crawley’s and Miss Swire’s upcoming nuptials,” he said wryly.

O’Brien shrugged and inhaled deeply, the warmth sliding down her throat. “Why shouldn’t it?”

“Only the way he looks at Lady Mary, that’s why.”

“That ship has sailed, and Lady Mary should settle down and give her mother some rest. The way she’s keeping Carlisle at bay, toying with him like a cat with a mouse: Does he stay or does he go, does she want him or does she not? It’s preposterous for a girl of her age, and it’s keeping the whole house on tenterhooks.”

Thomas quirked an eyebrow at her.

“Everyone downstairs is wondering whom he’ll try to pilfer from Lord Grantham’s staff next,” she continued.

“Too bad Carson’s loyalty did not prove purchasable after all,” Thomas commented dryly, flicking ash from his fag.

“Were you going to vie for the position once he left?”

Thomas shrugged. “Lord Grantham never took much liking to me; he wouldn’t take me on and we both know it.”

O’Brien pitched her voice low and stubbed out her cigarette, the red glow crushed under her heel to expose dry brown tobacco. “Have you made any progress getting into his desk as you promised?”

Thomas tilted towards her, offering her his pack of cigarettes. “As I told you two days ago and five days before that,” he hissed softly, “Carson keeps the place locked up tight as a bride’s legs before her wedding.”

“And you still haven’t found a way around it?”

“With the soldiers gone, I was expecting him to relax, you know, leave the key hanging, or the door unlocked, but he hasn’t. He won’t.”

O’Brien sighed, plucked another fag from Thomas’s pack. “We’ll have to find another way, then. She’s been here too long.”

“What are you expecting to find?” He lit her cigarette, the flame warmed her chilled fingers as she cupped them around it.

“I don’t know. But I’ve got to find it. Jane’s up to no good.”

“Sloppy corners again?” he smirked at her; he thought she was overreacting, but he’d change his tune once she dug up what she needed to find.

She shook her head. “Worse. She came into Her Ladyship’s room to make up the bed this morning and it was already half nine.”

“Half nine? Bit late, isn’t it?”

“I scolded her for her tardiness. Even with Anna being away this morning, it should have been done much earlier.”

“Think she was having a lie-in?”

“No. I saw her up and about at breakfast this morning. She’s not a lazy maid. She’s a guilty one.”

“Guilty?” Something dark flared in his eyes and he nudged closer.

O’Brien darted a look around the empty courtyard. “When I mentioned Lord Grantham’s name, she blushed, red as a beet, and said she’d just come from his room.”

“Oh did she?” Thomas straightened. “What do you figure this means? You think she was with him?”

“Of course not. He sits in the library in the mornings after breakfast.”

“So, she’s taken a fancy to him?”

“I don’t know.” O’Brien shook her head. “But I will get to the bottom of this and that starts by reading her reference letters.”

He nodded, bit his lip thoughtfully. “Alright then. You’ll have to create a distraction when he’s at his desk.”

“So you can slip in when he leaves the room?”

“Yes, make it during a busy time, right after he rings the dressing gong. It takes him a good five minutes to ring it, if you hold him up, that will give me time to find it.”

“What shall I do? I can’t just walk into the kitchen and start hollering.”

“You can think of something.”  


:::

It wasn’t that O’Brien disliked Daisy; she was just a gullible target, soaked up suggestions easily.

“You’re looking a bit peaked, dear, shouldn’t you go sit down?”

“Just before the bread’s to be punched down, I think not!” Patmore hollered from across the room. “What are you doing in my kitchen, O’Brien? Shouldn’t you be dressing Her Ladyship?”

O’Brien ignored her and stepped into Daisy’s space, taking her hand as the girl’s eyes flitted about the warm kitchen.

“But I _am_ feeling tired, Mrs. Patmore!” she turned to the other woman, voice a high whine.

“Let me fix you some tea before I go to dress Lady G. I know just the thing.”

Patmore could brandish her rolling pin all she wanted, O’Brien knew her way around the kitchen and wasn’t leaving just yet. It was a simple matter of fetching the hot water from the stove, slipping a packet out of her dress pocket, sprinkling it in the tea, and smiling at Daisy as she handed her the cup. She fixed herself a cup as well, without the contents of the packet.

“Do sit down, my dear. Now I’m off to see to Her Ladyship.” She drained her cup and walked away.

“And see that you do,” Patmore yelled after her.

O’Brien dragged her feet on the way to the servants stairs, passing Thomas with a subtle nod. She held her breath and counted. Seventy-one, seventy-two, seventy-three . . . Daisy screamed and she heard a thump; she hoped the girl hadn’t hit her head too hard on the way down.

“Lord all mighty! What a time to do this, Daisy! Fetch my smelling salts, Anna! And we’d better go call Mrs. Hughes and Mr. Carson!”

O’Brien slunk away.  


:::

O’Brien was waiting for Thomas in the small sitting room next to the library—the one rarely used after mid-morning. The minutes plodded by. If he didn’t hurry, she’d be late to dress Lady Grantham for bed. She had turned on a lamp and stood by it, a single glove drooping from her hand. Were anyone to enter, she would simply argue that she was looking for its mate; Lady Grantham had been in here this morning, after all.

She snapped to attention when the door swung open, brandishing the glove in front of her like a talisman or a weapon. “Oh it’s you.” She clenched the silk of the glove in her hand and moved towards him, out of sight of the window.

“Well,” he unbuttoned his livery and withdrew a thin sheaf of papers from his chest, “she’s moved around quite a bit, our Jane. One recommendation is from the Viscountess Thorne in Formby.” He held out a sheet. “Another from some family of no account in Wimborne Minster.” He passed her a second sheet with a flourish. “And finally,” he held the third letter high up, just out of reach of O’Brien’s grasp—his flair for the dramatic never ceased—“from a couple in Kilkenny.”

“In Ireland?”

“Indeed.”

“If her husband was in the Infantry, why was she in Ireland?”

“Why indeed?”

O’Brien needed time to think; this was better than she’d hoped for. She turned her back on him and paced, short, quiet steps on the rug.

“Do you know anyone in Kilkenny?”

“What do you think? Course I don’t.”

“Formby’s not far from Manchester.”

“No it’s not.”

“Not that I know anyone still there, except my two cousins, but they’ll be no help.” She spun on her heel. “Don’t you know anyone who can help us? Where is Wimborne Minster anyway?

He shrugged. “In the South, Dorset, near Poole.”

“Then perhaps you know someone from Bournemouth?”

“And who would I be knowing in Bournemouth?”

“What about all the fancy soldiers you befriended here?”

Thomas crossed his arms in front of his chest. “And when did I have time for that, exactly?”

He was right, she was overstepping; she looked away, staring out the black window. There had to be something for them to uncover.

“What did you expect to find?” He dropped his voice low. “An off-handed comment about her out-of-wedlock child? These references are glowing.”

O’Brien frowned and snatched the third from his hand. She’d find something, she was sure she would. She just needed some quiet to puzzle it all out.

“I’ve got to go to Lady G now. I’ll look through these tonight.”  


:::

The windowpane felt chilled to the touch; despite the warm spring day, the frost of winter still clung to the night air. The coals in the fire had been banked, leeching the warmth from Her Ladyship’s bedchamber. O’Brien opened the trunk in Lady Grantham’s dressing room, selected a thin blanket and carefully laid it over the down comforter on her bed.

As she moved to tuck the corners into the bed, the door to Lord Grantham’s chamber, standing slightly ajar, caught her eye. Moving softly, she approached it, listened for the sounds of his valet, waited, heard nothing, and quietly tugged it shut.

Then she sat at Her Ladyship’s dressing table, staring at that door, that easy passageway with no lock on either side, and waited for Cora.  


:::

“My mother’s second cousin married a bloke in Poole,” Thomas informed her softly when she found him alone with his tea at the servants’ table. “I just remembered last night. I’d forgotten about them, odd side of the family and all that. Her husband became a stablehand in a manor west of Ferndown, close to Wimborne Minster. She was a kitchen maid of some sort.”

O’Brien’s heart stuttered in her chest. “Can we write to her?”

He shrugged. “It’s a long shot, but I’ll do it. Although I still think . . .” He swallowed his words when Anna strode into the room, frowned at them, and poured herself some tea.  


:::

O’Brien dipped two fingers in the water. It had gone a touch too tepid while Her Ladyship conversed with Mary. She knelt to correct it, the pressure of the tile cold and sharp against her knees. Some of the water drained and she added hot until the tub steamed again. She stood, poured in four drops of lavender oil and two of rose, piled three folded towels on the stool to the left. She placed the fresh bar of soap in its gold-plated holder to the side of the tub and winced. She couldn’t help it, she cringed inside every time; her fingers burned, itched, trembled. Sometimes it was so bad that she felt the room closing in on her, the pristine walls lurking closer, threatening to press her to spot, pin her to the floor, squeeze her secret out of her.

She swallowed, telling herself not to be so ridiculously dramatic.

“O’Brien?” Her Ladyship’s voice rang into the room, so trusting, so cheerful.

“In here, My Lady. Your bath’s ready.”  


:::

“I’ve got a letter,” Thomas crowed in a smug singsong as he dashed past her on the stairs. Hands full with mending—Her Ladyship had ripped the hem of two of her dresses recently, very unlike her—O’Brien spun and halted, reached out with one hand to fumble for the banister to steady herself.

“Tell me you’ve got news!” she called after him.

“Haven’t opened it yet, haven’t had the time!” he tossed back, the slam of the door punctuating his words.  


:::

The house had gone to sleep before they opened the letter, huddled together by the light of a candle; turning on the electric lights in the servants’ hall would only alert anyone passing by that they were here.

O’Brien’s pinched shoulders ached and the soreness in the soles of her feet was radiating up her calves.

“Well then?” She bit out, tapping her fingers against the table and wishing she could smoke inside.

Thomas’ eyes darted over the folded sheet of paper, face impassive.

After too long a moment, he snorted lightly and tossed it aside. “There’s nothing here but my cousin angling for more gossip than she’s willing to give.”

O’Brien snatched it up.

“What did I tell you?” He raked his hand through his stiff hair. “The family in Wimborne Minster was of no account anyway. It’s the Formby connection you’ve got to trace, or the Kilkenny one, if you’re determined to dig up dirt on that one.”

 _. . . can’t say that I can recall any woman of your description fitting the name of Jane . . ._ she read. With a grunt, she flung the missive into the fire.

“There’s something, there’s something, I know there is, Thomas.” She heard the whining, pleading tone in her own voice and frowned.

“Well, that was a disappointment. All this sneaking around for nothing.”

“We had to start somewhere. I’m not giving up.” She squared her shoulders and stood.

“You’ve got to work the Manchester connection, then.”

“I told you, I haven’t been back in years. I don’t . . .”

“How much do you want dirt on her?”

She frowned at him. “You know me well enough to not ask that kind of question.”

“And why her?” he asked softly. The question that she kept coming back to herself, the question for which she didn’t have an answer, that she didn’t want to know the answer to.

She shook her head. “I know she’s up to no good.”

“But how?” Shadows from the candle flicked over his face, making him seem half-here, half-not, and she leaned forward. _I don’t like how she looks at His Lordship. I think she’s here to ruin Cora, Lady Grantham. Once a loose woman, always a loose woman._ The words hovered on her tongue, and she swallowed them back down. She just knew; there was something she must do to get rid of this Jane woman.

“I just do.” She rapped her knuckles on the table. “Now get to your room before they catch us out of bed and think we’re up to no good.”

He laughed, standing to follow her. “Whatever else would we be up to?”

“I’ll get to the bottom of this, I will.”  


:::

O’Brien was finishing her tea, leaning against the doorway of the servants’ hall, watching the buzz and bustle beginning for dinner when Thomas passed by, caught her eye, and gestured towards the door with his eyebrows.

“Done with Lady G, then?” He asked, holding the door open for her as she followed him into the damp spring air.

She nodded and fished her cigarettes from her pockets, thinking of the twists she’d pulled Lady Grantham’s hair into an hour ago. Something warm and bright flickered inside her every time Her Ladyship left her dressing room for dinner, her soft hair pinned and draped with every ounce of artistry O’Brien’s fingers could contort from it, her gown, her jewellery, gloves, shoes fitted perfectly to her body. That moment when Cora walked from the dressing room—before Lord Grantham saw her, before she pressed herself against one of her daughters in a mussing hug, before the breeze from a door falling open or slamming shut caught a strand of hair and freed it from the hold O’Brien had put it in—when she crossed the threshold between the space where she belonged to O’Brien and the space where she belonged to the world, that moment was always the most excruciating of the evening, heat and pride and want and frustration warred within her all at once. She had to stand by and watch the beauty she had crafted desert her, yet she also knew that every night Lady Grantham entered the world carrying O’Brien’s love on every inch of her body, protecting her, displaying itself for the world to see—in the soft line of her hair at her nape, the slight smudge of rogue on her cheek, the cinch of her waistline, the edge of a glove.

She lit her own cigarette and then offered Thomas one. “I’m off duty until after dinner. I must say I don’t mind watching the rest of them scurry about. So have you thought more about what are you going to do? How to find work?” It had been so quiet after Thomas had left for the war, O’Brien had some days thought that she never spoke more than three words at once— _Yes, My Lady_ and _No, My Lady_.

“With Carson just gone ill, it might give me a little more time,” he said tightly, “to make myself useful.”

O’Brien reached out, stroked a hand over the sleeve of his suit jacket. “Trying to get your old job back, then?” She knew how it must sting for him.

“If I can just persuade Carson to give it back to me. I wonder how the rest can be convinced?”

O’Brien was about to reply, because really there was such a thing as having too much pride, when the back door swung open and Mrs. Hughes strode out, her face drawn shut. “Miss O’Brien,” she called, “you must go to Her Ladyship at once. She’s not feeling well and went upstairs to lie down.”

“At this hour?” O’Brien stared at her. Her Ladyship would never abandon her duties as hostess at dinner unless the situation were truly dire. “Have you sent for the doctor?”

“Of course we have,” Mrs. Hughes said, not unkindly. “Come, you must go to her.”  


:::

O’Brien didn’t understand; two hours earlier she had been fastening the brooch around Lady Grantham’s neckline, the edges trailing unevenly down her chest. Now Her Ladyship sat still at her dressing table as O’Brien hurried to pull the pins out of her hair, pricking herself in her haste with the dull edge of a pin. Her Ladyship’s shoulders sagged, her face had gone pale.

“There, there now. It’s been too much on you, hasn’t it? Hearing the news about Lady Sybil last night has worn you out. You just need some rest, My Lady.”

She sighed, leaned forward on her elbows. “You’re probably right, O’Brien.” Ever the optimist. “Some sleep should be just the thing for this aching head I have.”

O’Brien slipped out the last hairpin and let her fingers trail over the cords in Cora’s neck, kneading there, working her fingers higher, tugging lightly and releasing the roots of her long hair, pressing the tips of her fingers over her scalp in soft circles. She bowed her head to O’Brien’s ministrations. “Thank you, O’Brien,” she murmured. “I always feel so safe, so cared for in your hands.” Those words, words which should have warmed her, made her throat tighten and sent a shot of ice down her spine instead. Cora was anything but safe with O’Brien, anything but.

She dropped her hands at her sides. “Let’s get you to bed, My Lady.”  


:::

The doctor came, the doctor left.

He hadn’t had anything useful to say, so O’Brien changed the damp washcloth on Lady Grantham’s head and laid small bags of ice over the sweat on her chest.

She pressed her hand to Cora’s forehead, it was warm, too warm. Had her skin grown paler in the last hour?

Could the doctor have been wrong about it not being too serious? Yes, she was sure of it, her temperature was rising. O’Brien reached for another dripping bag of ice.

Mrs. Hughes brought O’Brien a cup of tea. It grew cold sitting on Her Ladyship’s night stand.  


:::

Had a day passed? Two?

The doctor came again and left, his mouth a tight frown, his voice steady and even. “We’ll know more in a few hours.”

Mrs. Hughes brought more tea and demanded she drink it or she would call Anna and Jane to haul her to bed; O’Brien gulped it down without tasting it.

Lady Grantham floated in and out, her eyes sometimes blank, sometimes sharp. O’Brien watched. O’Brien waited.  


:::

The sheen of sweat glimmered on Cora’s neck and on her skin where her night-gown lay open to expose her collarbone. Should O’Brien change her night-shirt? She reached for the damp washcloth and sponged once again at her forehead, the skin of her cheeks, her neck. Underneath her, the pillow was soaked through from sweat. She stood to replace it and glanced out the window. Heavy grey clouds threatened rain.

Returning, O’Brien gently lifted Cora’s limp shoulders, changed the pillow; she didn’t stir. O’Brien stroked the wet strands of Cora’s hair away from her face, stared, the lines around her eyes and mouth, the angle of her pert nose, the curve of her lips. How many times in the past day—two days?—had she stared at that face, waiting for . . . for what, a reprieve? Over the years, she had stared at it so many times, seen it in every permutation, in more ways probably than even Lord Grantham—although there were expressions he had seen that she certainly had not and her jealously over that may someday eat her alive if she let it—but she had never stared at that face with the thought of not seeing it again.

Even now, it seemed unreal that that could even be possible.

Footsteps—other servants, her daughters, her husband—entered the room and left. O’Brien relinquished her spot by the headboard only begrudgingly, only because that’s what Her Ladyship would have wanted. She returned to it and the tightness inside eased.

Mrs. Hughes brought her another cup of tea and a plate of food. “It’s nearly six o’clock in the evening, Miss O’Brien. If you won’t come down for your supper, then you can at least eat it here.”

Loathe to look away from Her Ladyship’s face, O’Brien turned to Mrs. Hughes and shook her head. “I couldn’t eat now,” she said solemnly. “Thank you, Mrs. Hughes.”

“But you must eat something, surely. You’ve got to keep your strength up. It’s been two days and you haven’t eaten.”

“Later.” She reached for the washcloth and looked back to Cora.  


:::

“If she lasts through the night, she’ll make it.” Dr. Clarkson spoke drily, and O’Brien was grateful for his clinical tone.

Lady Sybil sat with her, in silence, moving only when someone entered the room. After some time, she squeezed O’Brien’s hand, her touch warm, fingers rougher than a lady’s should be, and left the room, leaving her alone with Cora’s motionless, sweating body, the drawn shades, and her thoughts aching low in her stomach.

Outside, the leaden clouds had faded to an impenetrable black, the only sign that time slowly trudged on.

No, this was not it, the end. It _wasn’t_. O’Brien was supposed to find a way to get another chance. She would make that chance for herself, she had promised herself that.

She stared at the food and tea gone cold that Mrs. Hughes had left by her side hours earlier. Her stomach tied up in thousands of twisted knots, there was no way she could swallow anything, or keep it down.

If she couldn’t make it up to Cora, if she never found that chance she had promised herself, then she would have to live with this . . . this torn-open feeling in her chest, this rawness that never seemed to fade, to heal, to close.

“Lady Grantham,” she cleared her dry throat, “Cora,” she said softly, allowing herself that word only this once.

Cora’s head shifted on the pillow, her eyes fluttered open, then closed. She kicked out a leg.

O’Brien leaned closer, the words welling up in her, streaming out of her. “Cora, I must speak . . .” Earlier she had tried to tell her, but Her Ladyship had not heard. She must tell her now.

Her lips moved, just barely, but O’Brien noticed, she leaned in. Did Her Ladyship know? Had she suspected all along what O’Brien had done?

She quieted, hearing only the beating of her own heart in her throat as she listened for what Cora had to say.

“Robert. . . . Robert.” The words came out a weak rasp and her eyes opened, stared at O’Brien, glazed and unfocused, and then closed.

She lay still, the steady slow rise and fall of her chest the only movement in the room.

O’Brien started at the sound of a door closing, Anna approached, candle in hand.

“What time is it?” she asked gruffly as she leaned in to dab the washcloth over Her Ladyship’s brow.

“Nearly midnight,” Anna said simply, pulling a chair up to the bedside and, after setting down her candle, settling in. “It’s time for you to get some sleep now.”

O’Brien shook her head. She would not be roused from her spot. Tonight was the crucial night.

“No, no,” Anna held up her hand. “I know what you’re going to say, that I don’t understand, that I couldn’t, that you have to sit with her.” She smiled softly, meeting O’Brien’s gaze. “I know,” she repeated. “But, the truth is, you’re no good to her in the state you’re in. The best way to help her is for you to sleep and eat so you’re in a better state to take care of her.” She was speaking briskly, holding her hand up as O’Brien opened her mouth to protest. “What good will you be to her if you catch it too? Or if you’re too tired to see straight? You’ll be the one giving her her medicines and looking after her for some time as she recovers and you have to be in the right state to do that, do you hear?”

O’Brien sighed. There was _some_ logic to Anna’s words.

“I know what you want us all to think, Miss O’Brien,” Anna paused, leaning in conspiratorially. “That your heart’s all shrivelled up, and that you don’t care a fig for anything or anyone. But I’ve seen the way you look at her, I’ve seen the way you care. Don’t think that I haven’t. You can’t hide it from me. And since you do care so much, you’re going to need your strength to nurse her back to health. So go to bed now.”

O’Brien just stared at Anna, at the simple directness, at the lack of malice in her words.

She was too weary, too filled with the impending future to hold her tongue. “Why are you saying all this to me? Why do you even care after everything I’ve done to you? And to Bates?”

Anna looked down. “You have been unkind to us, it’s true. But I’m too happy now to hold it against you.” She paused. “I know you did it because you were unhappy yourself, I see that.”

She patted O’Brien on the shoulder. “Now get going with you.”

“You must send someone to wake me if things take a turn for the worse.”

“Of course I will.”  


:::

O’Brien had meant to follow Anna’s advice, she truly had, but as she was trudging up the servants’ stairs, she remembered Lady Grantham’s voice, soft, weak, calling out for her husband.

She grit her teeth and turned around. Since the doctor had left, Mary had been to see her mother, so had Sybil and Edith, Mrs. Crawley, Matthew, even. It had been hours since Lord Grantham had been in her chambers. He had looked at O’Brien with such concern, such worry writ in the deep lines of his face, that she couldn’t help but feel sorry for the man. He at least sympathised with a part of what O’Brien was going through. Bonded together they were, in their terror that Cora might not live to see another sunrise.

He would want to know, surely, he would want to know that his wife had called out for him, had been asking for him. He should be in that room with Anna. She swallowed down the voices in her head saying that it was unfair; Cora would want it and that was all that mattered now.

Shoes soft on the carpets, O’Brien glided through the sleeping house. She peered through the grand windows in the hallway as she passed; the sky was still a starless swirl of black and grey, clouded and stark.

She stood outside Lord Grantham’s door, hand poised to knock. She had no place to be here, but the man was probably sleepless with worry. He would want to know what his wife saying, how she was faring. Surely he would want to come when she called him. If Cora were asking for her, O’Brien would never forgive herself for not coming when she called.

Her hand stilled, poised to knock, when urgent low voices—one of them unmistakably female—stayed her hand. She held her breath, leaning in to listen.

 _“As I told you last night, Jane, this is a terrible mistake. I should never have kissed you. I should never have taken advantage.”_

Her heart plummeted to her stomach, her lungs constricted, she couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move.

 _“I’m sorry to disturb you, your Lordship, I truly am. I just wanted to see if everything was alright, if you . . . needed anything to get through the night, if . . .”_

Of all the things—a flash of anger sliced through her and O’Brien wanted to throw open the door, expose the two of them, throttle them both with her own hands. Unable to reach a resolution, unable to think beyond the pulsing hot anger in her, she stood locked in place for one moment, two.

The creak of a floorboard sounded through the door, and the heave of a sigh. She didn’t need to hear anymore; a flood of nausea crested up through her and she clutched at her stomach.

Seething, she backed away, keeping her eyes on the door for a long time. It remained closed.

Finally, head down, she turned the corner and dashed up the servants’ stairs, needing space from that room.

“Alright?” Thomas’s voice arrested her in her path. She looked up to see him standing above her, outfitted in his old livery.

“So you’ve got your old job back after all,” she said dully.

“I’m just trying to help out as best I can.” Head cocked, staring intently at her, he descended another step. “Are you alright?”

She nodded, words too jumbled up in her throat to come out.

“I heard that Lady G took a turn for the worse.”

“I want to be with her, but Anna sent me out. Said I needed sleep.”

“I dare say she’s right. You look like you’ve been run over by a train.”

She did not respond so they stared at each other.

Finally, he leaned closer, lips to her ear. Frankly, it was a bit ridiculous, as if there was anyone else about this time of night, as if anything he said needed to be kept a secret. O’Brien was already weighed down with two secrets now—the largest two in the house, she was sure—and nothing he could say could compare.

“I’ve got another letter from my cousin,” he whispered.

What did that have to do with anything?

“My second cousin in Poole.”

O’Brien rubbed at her forehead. “I’m sorry, but what does that have to do with anything?”

“She’s dug up some information on your Jane, she has.”

No. It was all too late for that, anyway. The damage had been done; Jane was in Lord Grantham’s chambers this very minute.

O’Brien frowned. “It’ll have to wait ‘til morning.”

“But I thought you’d want to know that Jane was never married.”

For the second time that night, O’Brien was rooted to the spot. The nausea rolling in her belly threatened to surge up again. She swallowed. Why were the people around Cora not the people she needed them to be?

She wiped at her forehead again and turned to meet Thomas’ gaze.

“Never married?” she repeated

He nodded. “She asked around a bit. Turns out her sister-in-law had a friend who worked with a girl who used to work with the family that Jane was with. The Wilkinses of Wimborne Minster. There’s one thing she left out of her references. Before moving from Wimborne Minster to Formby, she did two years as a governess in Poole, for a well-off family there, the Braxtons. Mrs. Braxton wasn’t around too much. And your Jane and Mr. Braxton grew a little too close.”

“She’s not my Jane,” she snapped at him.

He shrugged. “Well, there was no husband. Never was. Her son’s nothing but Braxton’s bastard.”

“Braxton’s bastard?” It was worse than she could have anticipated. So Jane was the type to prey on lonely husbands, whether intentionally or not.

“How did she get the job in Wimborne then?”

“Waited two years, gave herself out as a war widow. Quite simple really. No one’s going to check it with the war on, no one’s going to care about a two-year hole in her employment history. All she had to do was make up a little story about a husband gone off to war and suddenly she’s respectable again.” His voice dripped with smugness.

O’Brien stared at the ground, too exhausted to think.

“So?” Thomas nudged her shoulder.

“So?”

“Well, you were right, aren’t you glad?”

She jerked her head up, glaring at him. “Of course I’m not _glad_. We’ve already let the viper into our nest.” She side-stepped him, careful not to touch, and continued up the stairs. “I’m off to bed,” she called without looking behind her.

“Right.”

She took two steps, Jane’s and Lord Grantham’s voices behind the door echoing in her mind as she walked. She thought of the soft way that Lady Grantham had called her husband’s name.

She stopped, turned back. “Thomas?”

He spun, quirked an eyebrow. “Yes?”

She wondered if Lord Grantham had looked at Jane in the same way that he stared on Lady Grantham sick and pale in bed, adoration mixed with regret.

If she told Thomas now, he would help her find a way to shame Jane, to shame Lord Grantham. Together they could tackle it, as they took on everything else that rained upon them.

“What is it?” he asked.

She thought of Cora’s ashen face, the curl of her hair around her damp neck, the blanched line of her dry lips, the sweat glistening in her clavicle.

There had to be a better way to handle this. Without Thomas for once.

“No, no, never mind, it’s nothing.” She bowed her head and climbed the stairs to her narrow room.  


:::

O’Brien was not the praying type. Her mother had spent hours on her knees, had worn two dull marks into the shiny wood by her bedside. But O’Brien had seen nothing good ever come of all that praying. No, she preferred to do things herself.

Yet as she lay there, with a stiff back and an unsteady stomach, staring in the dark at the shadows on the ceiling, she wondered if she should give that praying thing a chance.

She scoffed aloud. If she’d never tried it before, there was no chance that anyone up there would have the time to listen to her now.

Jumpy and jittery, her body ached with tiredness, but also buzzed with sparking, painful energy. Lady Grantham did not deserve this: did not deserve her as a lady’s maid, did not deserve Lord Grantham as a husband, Sybil, Mary, Edith with all their heartaches and missteps as her children, Jane as an employee in her house.

O’Brien sat upright in bed, twisted her hands in the bed-sheets just for a way to shove the energy out of the circuits of her own body. Lady Grantham didn’t deserve any of them, but perhaps . . . O’Brien could make it up to her. Fix it all. Her mind flew to Branson and Lady Sybil. But that certainly was not the way to go about things either.

She was up out of bed now, pacing. If she were to tell Lady Grantham, if she could find a way to show her how much she cared, turn her against her husband, maybe she could bomb down the wall between them with the new secret she carried. Would Cora leave him? Would she take a small flat in London with O’Brien as her only servant? She let herself picture it: a small place with a grand bedroom for Her Ladyship, a small corner room for O’Brien, a sunny sitting room where they’d sit together in the afternoons, surrounded by potted ferns and the quiet crackle of the fire. O’Brien could take on the cooking, too; it hadn’t been that long that she’d forgotten how. Roast chickens and pot pies and her mother’s fancy puddings on a Sunday. Cora’s daughters would flit in and out to look after their mother, and of course the occasional curious visitor would pay a call, or send an invite. But most of her hours, her days would belong to O’Brien. In the dark, she fumbled for her robe, belted it tightly around herself, and continued to walk circles in her narrow room.

Lord Grantham did not love Cora like she did. He did not deserve her like she did. She slumped down on the bed, attacked by the thought, the sensation in her chest, that yes, yes she could have Cora to herself. She just had to stretch out her hand, didn’t she? Open her mouth and spill out that horrible weighty secret?

Once she had nursed Her Ladyship back to health, once she was strong enough, O’Brien would lean into her space, smooth out an invisible wrinkle in the neckline of Cora’s dress, and pretend that she had something she desperately wanted to keep to herself.

 _I don’t like to say, My Lady._

Her Ladyship would cajole, wheedle, and finally order the ugly truth out of her and thank her for it.

And then Cora would be hers. She might never get to taste Cora’s porcelain skin, might never get to slowly trace the lines on the backs of her hands, tug her fingers through her hair just for the pleasure of feeling its texture, but she would be hers, nonetheless.

O’Brien lit a candle, the hope of her plan buoying her up, and dressed. Since she wasn’t sleeping anyway, she might as well return to Cora’s side.  


:::

The milky light flooding the sky before dawn seeped in the window by Lady Grantham’s bed, and when O’Brien spotted Cora’s still form there, she crashed back to the here and now of Cora’s sickroom. It was foolish to hope and plan for the future when Her Ladyship looked so pale.

Anna sat, head bowed over mending. She smiled at O’Brien. “Did you get any sleep?”

She shook her head. “Not much.”

“Well, at least you tried.”

“How is she?”

“The same. Breathing, restless.”

“Her temperature?”

Anna bit her lip. “Very high.”

“I can take over now if you want to go catch some sleep yourself.”

“Thank you.” Anna pressed her hand as she passed her the damp washcloth. “I’ll go to the kitchens and fetch you some breakfast first. I don’t suppose you’ve eaten anything yet.” When O’Brien opened her mouth to protest, Anna shook her head. “No, don’t bother telling me you won’t eat, like I said before you need to keep up your strength.”

“Thank you,” O’Brien croaked, feeling stupid standing there with her exhaustion and worry open on her face for Anna to see.

Anna smiled faintly and left the room.  


:::

The sun had beaten away all the shadows from the night and was shining in bright yellow squares on the rug when O’Brien realised she hadn’t needed to wipe sweat from Cora’s brow for quite some time. She pressed her hand against her skin; it was cool to the touch. Her chest was rising and falling in a steady rhythm, not the belaboured heaving of the previous night.

O’Brien bit her lip and stared, not wanting to hope too soon. No, there it was: even inhales and exhales, a coolness on her skin. The tightness in her own chest shuddered and cracked, and she planted her cheek on the bed by Cora’s hand, fighting the hot press of tears welling up stupidly in her chest and tightening her throat.

She stilled, held her breath, when she felt hesitant fingers in her curls.

“O’Brien?”

The fingers brushed over her scalp, tangled in her hair, the warmest and most delicious sensation she’d ever experienced. She didn’t want to move.

But eventually she sat up, met the shockingly lucid blue of Lady Grantham’s eyes.

“O’Brien,” that familiar smile greeted her and she nearly lost hold of herself.

“My Lady, how are you feeling?”

“Alive, O’Brien, alive and aware.” She spoke with an exhausted frankness that confirmed more than anything that she had truly improved. “And my throat and head are aching.”

O’Brien stood and tugged frantically at the bell pull. “We’ll get you some broth, My Lady.”

“Here,” she passed her a cup of cooled cinnamon and milk that had stood at the ready on her night-stand.

“Robert?” Lady Grantham asked weakly after sipping at the milk.

O’Brien paused a beat. Now, now would be the moment to plant the seed in her mind.

Yet . . . Cora’s eyes positively shone as she spoke her husband’s name.

O’Brien thought of a flat in London with just the two of them and the quiet crackle of the fire. She bit her lip and looked away.

“Is Robert not well?” Her Ladyship asked, high-pitched concern lancing through her tired voice.

O’Brien thought of Cora’s face after she had lost the baby. She remembered the way her chest had ached as she had watched Cora’s body recover, as she’d wondered if Cora’s heart—or her own—would ever mend. She thought of the way, even now, she would give anything to only be able to go back and pick up that stupid stupid bar of soap.

She thought, too, of Ethel’s child; what did the world care if one more Lord took advantage of yet another housemaid? Would Lady Grantham leave him or would she just frown when she heard the news? Fire Jane and move on? Lock the story away with the memory of her lost baby? Let the coldness solidify between her husband and her?

O’Brien closed her eyes and let go of the flat in London.

“I’ve never seen him so worried, My Lady,” O’Brien said softly, not sure whether it was a lie or not, suddenly, desperately wanting it to be true, wanting him to be the husband she deserved. “Worried sick about you. As soon as someone joins us, I’ll have them fetch him straight away.” And drag him in here, should he be not alone in bed, she promised herself grimly.

Then the door swung open and Sybil marched in, followed by Anna.  


:::

If His Lordship hadn’t spent the night alone, O’Brien could not tell. He rushed through the door, immaculately dressed for the day by Bates, of course. The dark circles under his eyes had been there last night, for sure, and he perched on Cora’s bed, stroked back her hair, and stared into her eyes like she was the only person in the room.

“You’re awake.” The words rushed out of him on an exhale of what sounded like relief.

He pressed his palm against her brow. “And your temperature’s dropped.” Standing, he turned to Sybil, eyes wide, voice low. “Does this mean she’s on the mend?”

She bit her lip and nodded. “Dr. Clarkson will be here soon to confirm, but yes, I do believe so, father.” He engulfed her in a quick embrace, and then turned back to his wife.

“O’Brien told me how worried you were,” Cora said, voice lightly chiding.

“I was, my love, I was.”

As His Lordship clasped both Cora’s hands in his, stroked one strand of hair by her ear over and over, as if to reassure himself that she was real, that she was there, O’Brien looked away, grit her teeth, and let herself fade into the wall like the shadow every servant should know how to be.

She turned and shuffled through the door. This was what Lady Grantham needed, what Cora needed. She just hoped that His Lordship lived up to it.  


:::

She didn’t waste time going down for breakfast, not yet. She found Jane making up the fire in one of the drawing rooms. The door clicked shut behind her, and O’Brien locked it for good measure.

Jane turned, a hesitant smile on her face. Neither spoke for a minute. Jane broke first. “O’Brien? How is Her Ladyship?”

“Much better, thank you.”

“Oh good. I was worried.”

“Were you?” O’Brien stepped closer.

Jane stared at the floor and fidgeted. “Of course, why shouldn’t I be?”

“The thing is, Jane,” O’Brien closed in on her and dropped her voice, let Jane feel the weighty threat of her approach. “I don’t believe you were worried. I don’t believe you wanted her to recover.”

“What?” Her head snapped up and she glared at O’Brien as the colour leeched from her face.

“I know where you were last night. You are going to resign immediately so you cannot ever spend another minute in those rooms.”

Jane lifted her chin. “Where do you think I was then?”

“In His Lordship’s bedchamber.”

Her bottom lip trembled, ever so slightly. “You have no proof of that. I don’t think anyone in this house would believe your word over mine.”

O’Brien scoffed. “Of course they wouldn’t. You, the quiet, kindly widow? Of course they’d believe you over me. You’ve twisted them all around your finger with that war widow act, haven’t you?”

“It’s a far better sight than your act, always going on like you’re above us all and making everyone hate you. So why tell me? Why threaten me? You can’t go running to Mrs. Hughes when you know she wouldn’t believe you.”

“No, but I can reveal information about you. Some very unpleasant information about your past. About your boy’s father.”

Jane bit her lip and looked away. “He was a respectable soldier for his country, he . . .”

“Was your former employer,” O’Brien interrupted. “One Mr. Braxton. And I’ve certainly got proof of that. So you’ll be handing in your notice tomorrow morning, first thing.”

Jane’s shoulders slumped and she was silent for a long moment. “No one would take me on. What else was I to do? I have to work, feed my son, feed myself.”

“Yes, but you can do that in someone else’s house. Not ours.”

Jane turned her back on her, her words coming out a choked garble. “You’re such a hateful woman. You have no idea, _no idea_ what I’ve been through, how I fought to get this position, how everyone treated me . . .”

O’Brien could guess; it was time to try a new tactic. “Truth is, Jane,” she said simply, “You’d hear no complaints from me if you whisked Lord G away from here. But that is not going to happen. He’ll never leave his wife and you’ll never be anything more than another housemaid who fell stupidly for the master of the house. And you’ll make yourself and Lady Grantham both miserable. Do you think one mouth is hard to feed? Try two. If you resign now, surely he’ll give you a glowing letter of reference. If you wait too long to resign, you might end up tossed out by the lady of the house without a reference. And you’ve been there before, haven’t you?”

Jane shook her head, back still to O’Brien, shoulders a stiff line around her neck. “I thought it’d be different with him. It will be. He’s noble, honourable. We didn’t even . . . do, we didn’t . . . Nothing’s going to happen. Nothing.”

O’Brien closed in, placed an arm around her shoulder. “It always starts out different, doesn’t it, love? But it ends the same. I’ve been in enough households to see it.”  


:::

“So why do you think Jane left?” Thomas asked through a mouthful of smoke. “Do you think she knew we were making inquiries?”

O’Brien shrugged. “How could she? All that matters is the woman’s gone now.”

“The viper gone from the nest?” he asked quietly, eying her askance. “It was rather sudden-like, don’t you think?”

“Maybe the Spanish flu scared her off.”

“I was rather hoping we would get to do that bit. Plus it seems odd she’d quit _after_ the flu had taken its toll. It was no threat to her then.”

O’Brien rolled her eyes. “Feel robbed of a bit of fun, do you?”

“Fun that I worked so hard to find for _us_.”

The emphasis wasn’t lost on O’Brien, but she ignored it. “Well, then, you’ll just have to find us fun somewhere else, won’t you?” She quirked an eyebrow at him, stubbed out her cigarette, and walked back inside.


End file.
